*BANG!*
The sound of the muffled explosion directly beneath him caused him to flinch in startled reaction, and in the same instant he felt the front of the bike take an unexpected, heart-stopping dip. With the front wheel suddenly immobilized, the back end of the bike flipped up, launching him into the air and over the handlebars with startling abruptness. With fascinated eyes, he watched the asphalt as it rushed up to meet his face.
Just before impact, he closed his eyes tight, brought his arms up to protect his face, and allowed his body to become limber, for he knew that if he skidded at this great speed, it would peel the skin from his body. An instant later he made bone-jarring impact, his padded elbows striking the pavement first. He rolled to one side as his left arm folded beneath his body, and pain numbed his left shoulder as it collided with the hard asphalt. Rolling and tumbling down the highway, he felt another sharp pain in his right hip and at the same time heard a strange �popping� sound. His sunglasses leaped from the bridge of his nose. Behind him, he could hear the clanging and banging of the bicycle as it cartwheeled down the highway, end over end. Without making it a conscious thought, he hoped it did not land on top of him.
After what seemed a much longer time than it actually was, he came to an abrupt stop and silence settled over the desert again. When he opened his eyes, he found that he was lying on his belly, spread eagled on the highway. Somehow, he had turned around so that he was facing his bicycle, which had come to a stop behind him only a couple of yards back.
J.R. lay still for several moments, taking a mental inventory of all his body parts. Slowly, he moved his arms and legs and turned his head from side to side, gauging the degree of discomfort with each movement. There was some minor pain in his elbows, which had struck the pavement first, and his left shoulder ached, as did his right hip, but everything else appeared to be intact and relatively undamaged. The helmet and the knee and elbow pads had effectively done their job of sparing him serious injury.
Slowly, he pushed himself into a seated position, wincing at the pain in his shoulder that intensified with the movement. There seemed to be a strange squishing feeling at his hip, so he reached back and pushed his fingers into his pocket. He immediately grimaced with the realization that his bottle of sunscreen had popped open from the pressure of landing on it, and the white creamy liquid had been released into his pocket.
�Oh, man!� he exclaimed as he withdrew the messy bottle and tossed it aside, then attempted to rub the cream off his fingers on the asphalt with little success, but he knew that was the least of his concerns: He was stranded in the middle of nowhere with no way to call for help.
Reaching up, he unfastened the helmet and removed it, then thumped it down on the asphalt beside him, a gesture of frustration. The mild breeze instantly cooled the sweat that dampened his unruly hair. Pausing there on the pavement, he rested for a few moments, gazing at the bicycle, which lay on its side. The rear wheel was still turning slowly as the well-oiled chain moved through the guide, but the front wheel seemed to be hanging lopsided from the rim.
Finally, with considerable effort, he struggled to his feet, picking up the helmet with his left hand while his right hand pressed against his left shoulder in an attempt to ease the throbbing pain that persisted. He rolled the shoulder back and forth, and determined that it was not broken or dislocated, but almost certainly sprained and probably contused. But it would heal. His swan dive over the handlebars at such a high speed could have left him with worse injuries than a few contusions. Instinctively, he knew he would experience greater soreness when he got up the next morning.
Slowly, he began walking back toward the bicycle. Halfway there, he stooped to retrieve his sunglasses. The earpieces were askew, and the lens on one side was shattered. Useless. Dropping them into the helmet, he went to the disabled bicycle.
Grasping the handlebars, he pulled the bicycle upright again. It seemed to groan in the process, like an injured horse struggling to its feet. Pushing down the kickstand, he squatted down to assess the damage. A gaping four-inch rip in the front tire indicated that he had probably run over something sharp which had pierced the tube, resulting in the blowout. The frame displayed a few new dents, several spokes were bent, and some paint was scraped off, but it could be repaired, once he managed to get back home. Humorously, the water bottle and the pump were both still firmly attached to the frame in their respective holders, intact and unharmed.
Rising to his feet again, he looked up the long stretch of highway that led toward Los Angeles. He saw only the endless gray-black ribbon of highway and the dirt and sagebrush and rocks that made up the desert on both sides. Placing his hand on top of his head in utter despair, he turned to look behind him, but there was nothing to be seen in that direction, either. He had left the abandoned rest stop behind miles ago.
With a dejected sigh, he refastened the chinstrap of his helmet and draped it on the handlebars by the straps so that it hung upside down. Next he removed his knee pads, elbow pads, and cycling gloves, and he stuffed them inside the helmet with the sunglasses. While riding the bike, he had barely noticed them, but on foot, they seemed hot and cumbersome.
Feeling extremely helpless, he glanced up and down the highway again, trying to decide what to do. He had only two options: he could start walking toward the Traveler�s Stop convenience store, or he could return to the abandoned rest stop. If he went toward the convenience store, he would at least be moving forward, rather than backtracking over ground he had already covered. However, unless he came upon some trees as he neared the populated areas, he would have no shade except for the scattered creosote bushes.
Turning, he looked behind him again in the direction of the Desert Oasis. It was a lot closer in distance than the convenience store, and the shade from the awning and the cool cement of the sidewalks would offer some relief from the heat. Either way, when he failed to show up at the store on time, Betty would come looking for him. The question remained: Did he want to go forward, or retrace his path back to the Oasis?
Severely discouraged and lacking enthusiasm about the walk that lay ahead of him, he folded his arms on the handlebars of his bicycle and rested his head on them. Closing his eyes, his tired and frustrated mind attempted to come up with some alternative, but no other option was presenting itself. As he pondered his options, he could feel the sun�s heat relentlessly beating down on his head and back, reminding him that it was going to be a long, hot afternoon.
In his mind�s eye, he formed a mental picture of the group of buildings that formed the Oasis. Except for the empty phone booth, he had not seriously looked around the area for a pay phone. It was unlikely, but perhaps there had been another one nearer the service station, left there as a courtesy to stranded travelers like himself.
On the other hand, he did not relish the idea of backtracking. If he set out for Los Angeles, he would be nearer when they came looking for him. Hopefully, he could find some brush to rest under when he needed to stop and rest.
Reaching a decision, he lifted his head from his arms. He needed to do something about his bicycle. Realizing that the flat tire would make it difficult to push, he knew he would have no choice but to leave it behind. However, he did not want to leave it in the open, where anyone who happened by could steal it. He needed to find a secure hiding place for it.
His eyes shifted to the surrounding landscape. Desert sage, Mojave yuccas, ocotillo, creosote bushes, and a host of other desert plants were growing in abundance. He could hide the bicycle behind a clump of brush and retrieve it later, when help arrived. A car going past would never see it.
Gripping the handlebars, he pushed the bicycle off the asphalt and onto the dry ground of the desert floor. The flat tire made it difficult to push on the dirt, so he simply picked it up and carried it behind the nearest clump of brush and set it back down again. He leaned on it briefly to catch his breath again, then pushed it as close to the brush as he could, effectively concealing it from the road and anyone who might try to steal it. He felt the absurdity of what he was doing, for there was no one around to steal the bicycle anyway, but hiding it made him feel better. As he rested for a moment, he noticed the bottle of water in its holder, and he reached down to remove it. For his long walk to the Traveler�s Stop, he would need it to stay hydrated.
Emerging from the brush, he returned to the highway and picked up a chunk of soft sandstone, which he used to mark a large X on the surface of the asphalt to mark the location of his bike so that it could be recovered later. Then he tossed the rock aside and started walking
A half hour later, he paused, panting and sweating at the top of a rise of ground that would have seemed insignificant on the bike. His hair and his shirt and jeans were damp and all three clung to his moist skin. Lifting the hem of his shirt, he used it to mop the perspiration from his face, then taking it in both hands, he began a fanning motion with the fabric to cool his torso. The cool breeze felt good on his bare skin, and for just a moment he considered removing the shirt completely. But that would be foolish, he knew, for that would invite a serious sunburn.
Dropping the hem of the shirt back into place, he uncapped the bottle of water and placed it against his lips, but he only took a short drink and he was careful not to waste any of it, for very little remained in the bottom of it. After recapping it, he dragged his fingers through his wet hair to push it off his forehead as he scanned the horizon, marveling at the fact that he had not seen one vehicle the entire day. No wonder the Oasis had gone out of business. Something in the back of his mind told him that he should have inquired about the rest stop before embarking on this outing, but in his enthusiasm it had been overlooked. He felt rather foolish about that now. It was the one detail he had not worked out properly.
Gazing ahead of him from the summit of the shallow hill, he focused on the distant horizon, hoping to see the first indications that he was nearing the city. Instead he saw only the highway itself disappearing into the distance. Hopelessness surged inside him, and his shoulders slumped, severely discouraged. But as his eyes slid along that seemingly endless black ribbon of highway, he saw something that made him blink with disbelief, something that seemed distinctly out of place along this deserted stretch of highway. He closed his eyes tightly for several seconds, then opened them again to make certain he was not seeing a mirage. When he looked again, it was still there. A car! Slate gray in color, it had been easy to overlook on first glance.
Squinting in the strong sunlight, he looked at the vehicle carefully. It was parked on the road in the eastbound lane, facing him, and he could see a man in the driver�s seat, just sitting there. Listening carefully, he could hear the sound of the driver attempting to start the engine. A stranded motorist. J.R. tinkered with his Mustang on occasion, and if he could help get that car started, it would hopefully be his ticket back to civilization.
Picking up his pace with a newly found burst of energy, he walked down the slight slope toward the vehicle. It was not a newer model vehicle, but apparently well cared for. The shiny finish gleamed in the sunlight. Finally, the man got out and opened the hood, so focused on his dilemma that he was apparently unaware of the man who was walking down the highway toward him.
As J.R. came up behind him, he spoke in a cheerful voice, �Hey, I�ll give you a hand with that if you�ll give me a ride back to civilization.�
The man flinched, startled by the sudden appearance of another person, and he rose up so quickly that he barely missed banging his head on the hood.
J.R. was instantly taken aback by the vaguely familiar qualities of the motorist�s face, as if he had seen him before; recently, in fact. He was a big man, not so much tall as he was husky and barrel chested, like a linebacker. His face was stubbled with a salt and pepper beard that had not been shaved in a couple of days, and the gray eyes that stared back him were cold as steel. He was wearing an ill-fitting tank top and dirty gray fatigues, and there was a foul odor about him, but J.R. shrugged it off. As hard as he had been sweating all day, he probably smelled pretty ripe himself.
�Don�t sneak up on me like that, boy,� the man growled, irritably. J.R. saw that several of his teeth were missing. Most of the rest were rotting, and he could smell the man�s bad breath across the four or five feet that separated them.
Feeling a bit uncomfortable under the scrutinizing stare of the other man, J.R. gave an apologetic shrug and said in a friendly tone, �Sorry. I didn�t mean to startle you.� He extended his hand in the universal gesture of friendship. �I�m J.R. Jones. I�m stranded too. I�ve been walking for quite a while, and you�re the first person I�ve seen all day!�
The man stared at him long and hard, so long in fact that J.R. was convinced that the man had detected the vague recognition he had felt. Slowly, he extended his grimy hand and grasped the hand that was offered. �Name�s Carl.�
J.R.�s eyes dipped slightly toward the grimy hand that held his in an uncomfortably tight grip. A rattlesnake tattoo, its mouth open to reveal its fangs and forked tongue, slithered its way down the beefy forearm, and Carl seemed to be watching J.R. closely as he glanced at it. Again, traces of a memory stirred at the back of J.R.�s mind, not coming completely to the surface.
Again, that foul breath wafted toward J.R., so rank that J.R. had to resist the urge to take a step backward. Instead, he pulled his hand out of Carl�s grip and forced a pleasant smile. �I am really glad to see you, Carl. Looks like we can be of mutual service to one another. My bike had a blowout a few miles up the road, and I could sure use a lift. It�s a long walk back to L.A.!�
Carl continued to regard him with more distrust that he would have thought, under the circumstances, and to J.R.�s surprise, he didn�t bother asking why anyone would be riding a bicycle on this lonely stretch of highway. Clearly, he wasn�t interested. �Ain�t goin� that direction,� he said. Dismissing J.R. entirely, he reached under the hood again and his hand started moving over the engine.
J.R. instantly recognized the fact that the man had no idea what he was looking for. The moving of his hands around the engine was hesitant and uncertain, apparently hoping to stumble onto something obvious that would fix the stalled car. Again, J.R. frowned. He was not one who typically cast stereotypes, but Carl was clearly not an office worker of any kind, judging by the clothes and general appearance. He looked to be more of a laborer sort, the kind you often found working on vehicles, and it seemed odd that he would be so uncomfortable under the hood of a car. Even he, a law student and part time private detective, was apparently more knowledgeable about cars than this man.
Still, Carl�s helplessness was encouraging. They clearly needed each other�s help, so J.R. pushed ahead determinedly. �I might be able to help you get this car started. I could make it worth your while to take me to the Traveler�s Stop convenience store just up the way a bit.�
This caught the man�s attention, and he rose up to stare at him again. �How much ya got?�
�Not much, I�m afraid,� J.R. admitted. �Just a twenty and a couple of ones I brought it with me to have a bite to eat at the Desert Oasis, but I didn�t count on it being closed. It should be enough to pay for the gas with some left over for your trouble. What�ya say?�
At the discovery that J.R. was not carrying much money, Carl lost interest again and turned his attention back to the engine. �Told ya, I ain�t going back that way.�
J.R. sighed, wishing he had more to negotiate with. Betty would not be thrilled with this, but he plowed ahead, �All right, tell you what I can do. When I get there, I�ll call someone to come pick me up, and I can borrow another twenty from her. That should make it worth your while.�
Carl seemed to be pondering the option, weighing what he could do with forty dollars. Apparently it still wasn�t enough to entice him into making the trip. �Make it a hundred and I�ll think about it.�
�A hundred!� J.R. echoed. �It isn�t that far!�
�Then I guess you won�t mind walkin� it.�
After a moment�s indecision, J.R. decided to call his bluff. The man clearly had no idea what to look for under that hood. If he wanted to stay out here in the heat for hours trying to figure out what was wrong with his car while J.R. walked to the convenience store, then it was fine by him. Raising his hands as if in surrender, he started walking away from the car. �Okay. I�ll send someone back to get you, because it looks like this car isn�t going anywhere.�
�No!� Carl said just a bit too quickly and a bit too harshly.
J.R. turned back around to face him, a puzzled frown creasing his handsome features in response to that abrupt, almost panicked order.
Carl seemed to be weighing his options again, and J.R. wondered if he was just slow, or if there was some reason he didn�t want to drive back to the convenience store. Or maybe both.
�Can you get this car started?�
�Maybe,� J.R. replied. �Depends on what the problem is.�
�All right. You get this car started, and I�ll take you back up the road and drop you off a half mile from the convenience store. It�s still a long way out of my way, but I reckon it�s the least I can do.�
Apprehension nudged its way into J.R. mind, a silent warning that something was very wrong here. For some reason, Carl did not want to drive all the way back to the convenience store, and he suspected it had nothing to do with the distance. An extra half mile in a char was hardly any time at all. Why did that face and that tattoo look so familiar?
Experiencing an almost overpowering sensation of imminent danger, J.R. stood there for several moments, pondering this new concern. What would Carl do if he told him �no deal� and kept walking? Had he committed some crime that he was running from? Was that why he didn�t want to go back?
There�s no proof of that, J.R. reminded himself. The guy�s acting a bit suspicious, but that doesn�t make him a criminal.
Seeing his hesitation, Carl changed his tune to one that was more pleasant. �All right, all right; you keep your money. Get this car started, and I�ll take you back to that convenience store.�
J.R. still hesitated. Instinct was screaming like a claxon that something was very wrong with this situation. He wasn�t sure he wanted to get inside a car with this Carl person.
�Look, I�m sorry,� Carl said. �You�ve been offerin� to help me ever since you showed up, and I�ve been actin� like a jerk.� After a moment, he said one of the most painful words in the English language: �Please. I don�t know much about cars, but I guess you already noticed that. And you�re right, unless you help me it ain�t goin� nowhere.�
With the warning bells still sounding in his head, J.R. walked slowly back to the stranded vehicle. �Okay. I�ll see what I can do.� As he passed the doors to the car, he glanced in the back seat casually and noticed a pair of pants and a shirt that looked like prison fatigues. Was Carl a prison escapee? Was that why he didn�t want to go back? If it was true, it was unlikely that he would keep up his end of the bargain. Still, to back out now would make Carl suspicious. Working on the vehicle would give him some time to try to think of something.
Moving to the front of the vehicle, he set his bottle of water down on the ground, then leaned under the hood and began examining the engine. From the side, Carl leaned over to watch, their heads almost touching, and J.R. became aware of the sickening smell of his breath and body odor again. He tried to ignore it as his hands moved over the engine, checking fluid levels and hoses, and his mind was working furiously to remember where he had seen Carl.
It struck him right out of the blue, and he felt his pulse quicken. He had seen that face and the tattoo in one of Lieutenant Biddle�s case files. He had glimpsed it lying open on the desk just yesterday when he had accompanied Barnaby for a brief visit that was tied to a case they were working on. Seeing his interest, Biddle had replaced the papers and photographs and closed the file, but not before J.R. had gotten a good look at it. A prison escapee. What was his name? He concentrated on that file, trying to see the label in his mind. It came to him with a jolt. Jessup! Yes, that was it; Doyle Jessup; in and out of prison most of his life, but most recently imprisoned two years ago for the brutal rapes of three women and the murder of one of them.
His lips parted slightly as his gaze was irresistibly drawn to the harsh face, and his breathing accelerated with the confirmation that this man was extremely dangerous. Jessup was a hardened criminal who had somehow managed to escape from prison two days ago, fatally injuring one of his guards. Another murder on his record. One more wouldn�t make much difference. He knew now, without a doubt, that he would not be getting a lift to the Traveler�s Stop.
A frown puckered Jessup�s brow, detecting the recognition on the younger man�s face. �You know me, boy?�
J.R. looked away, quickly, focusing on the hose clamp that he was tightening. �No.�
�Then why are you starin� at me like that?�
�I � I just . . . I�m sorry.� That was a lame thing to say, he thought. He�s already suspicious, and you go and apologize for looking at him! He tried to put a pleasant tone to his voice. �No offense.� Turning his attention back to the engine, he made some adjustments. �Here, I think I found the problem. Why don�t you go see if it�ll start?�
Jessup stared hard at him a few moments longer, then went to the drivers seat and sat down. Leaving the car door open, he inserted the key in the ignition and the engine roared to life, leaving J.R. with a dilemma. What should he do now? Get in the car with a hardened criminal? Or make some excuse and start walking? Neither option was looking very smart, but he knew for certain that he would not be getting into that car.
He lowered the hood and closed it firmly. Jessup was still waiting in the driver�s seat, the door wide open as he watched him, and J.R. knew that he was trying to decide what to do as well. Stooping, he picked up his bottle of water.
Moving around to the passenger door, J.R. saw that the passenger window was rolled up, so he opened the car door and said, �Listen, Carl, I appreciate the offer of a ride, I really do, but I know you�re probably late for wherever you�re going, so I won�t take up any more of your time. Have a safe trip.�
Without giving Jessup time to respond, he pushed the door closed and started walking along the shoulder, praying silently that the prison escapee would just leave him alone and drive away. But even as the thought passed through his mind, he was listening intently, hoping to hear the car shift into drive and pull away. Instead, he experienced a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach when he heard the engine shut off, and heard the crunch of gravel under Jessup�s foot as he got out of the vehicle.
Go to Act III